Fishing the High Country
A body of translucent blue spreads before him,
reflecting heavens of stark purity.
He flicks his shiny offering towards depths unknown,
and cranks the oiled reel.
Time pours slowly,
as the reflective lure moves through crystal waters.
Again the motions transfix thought,
cast, retrieve, move, repeat.
Until abruptly, something strikes the silver flasher,
now the dance is on.
The light weight pole bends to unspoiled water,
as the luminescent trout hurls its body above the water’s surface.
The aquatic life’s attempt to dislodge the three pronged hook fails.
But fish and man have met stares.
The dance intensifies,
a run is made,
line is peeled from spool.
Deeper the fish plunges through roiled waters.
But he will tire,
and face his likely death.
He ceases his desperate struggle.
The distance between predator and prey withers.
The angler now reaches for his worthy prize.
He captures the weighty fish through jaw and gill,
and lifts his prey from liquid home.
He has acquired what he sought,
but he knows that he must not devour this mountain rarity.
Gently, the fish is revived in the cool water.
He is released, and the two part, not as enemies,
but as two strangers,
who met in the fading twilight of the evening rise.
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